Dear Aisha,
It’s your first birthday, and I’m not even there to share it with you. If I could be, I’d shower you with hamburgers and let you rip a hole in my sock with your teeth. I’d take you to the park and let you be your hyperactive, galumphing self all over the place. I’d even let you try to climb out the window of the car while we’re flying down the highway at an exceptionally reasonable 75 mph. But I’m not there and I can’t be and I’m sorry.
I remember when I first saw your picture on the Internet (you hussy!). Your breeder lived in Florida, but I fell in love with your fluffy goodness immediately and agreed to drive down and pick you up myself. When I drove away from your old house, you started crying and howling and I couldn’t comfort you – I guess you missed your real mom and had not yet learned that I’m not an entirely awful substitute. It was really late at night, so I parked in a dark parking lot, curled up in the backseat with you, and slept for a few hours. You smelled like puppy and softness, and I didn’t even mind when you chewed the plastic trim on my seats.
In our first few months together, you managed to try my patience endlessly. I’d be working on homework in the office, and realize that you’d been quiet for a full twenty minutes. When I’d go into the living room to find you, you’d be lying contentedly on the floor, surrounded by the contents of the pillow you’d just destroyed, or the marker you’d just eviscerated, or the trash can you’d just overturned. Kobe had been a bit of a pest as a puppy; you were a complete hurricane.
In no time at all, you (unexpectedly) became larger than Kobe, and with twice as much energy. You gave 110% to everything you did, whether it was eating my shoes, tackling me while I was sleeping, or chasing Kobe under the bed. I spent a lot of time making voodoo dolls of you and walking you along the highway in hopes that a drunk driver might pass by, but I also spent a lot of time laughing at just how ridiculous you were. While you may have given your whole heart to being a walking disaster, you also gave your whole heart to loving us. Sometimes knowing that you needed my constant attention and affection was the best feeling in the world.
I won’t be around for the second year of your life, but I hope it is wonderful nonetheless. As you get older, I’m sure you’ll calm down and stop eating the corners off the couches, and it makes me incredibly sad to realize that I won’t be around to know you. I’m sure you’ll forget me and forget how I took you to Middleburg to stroll around and bite pedestrians and forget how I taught you to chew gum, but just don’t forget that you’re loved no matter how bad you may be.
Love,
Mom